


Growth Factor

by domesticadventures



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Headspace, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 02:19:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4286976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/domesticadventures/pseuds/domesticadventures
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a hole in your chest where you’re pretty sure a soul should go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Growth Factor

**Author's Note:**

> Companion pieces: [Dean](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2396159) | [Sam](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2670389)

There’s a heart in your chest, still and silent, that doesn’t belong to you.

Humans used to believe the heart was the center of a person, the place where their thoughts and feelings and soul resided. You’ve known all along this was nothing more than ignorance. Still, it’s a human thing, you suppose, like art and hope and love. Just another thing that is not yours.

When you leave and your heart clenches, your stomach twists, your limbs grow heavy, you know these feelings are not yours. They cannot be.

There’s a heart in your chest. Sometimes, you can even feel it beating.

You wonder what it means.

\--

Plants may be God’s creations, but there are none in heaven except those grown by human will.

You used to sit in an eternal Tuesday afternoon, surrounded by light and life. Its creator watched you examine the flowers, appraised you silently, figured out you liked them all, but you treasured the red peonies and white dogwood the most. He grew them for you by the dozens, by the hundreds, by the thousands. He gave you field after field of your favorites.

In return, you brought him guerilla warfare, scorched earth tactics.

There are no peonies or dogwood there any more, just endless expanses of asphodel.

You don’t see their creator, but you know they’re meant for you.

\--

There’s a heart in your chest. Once upon a time it was borrowed, just like the rest of you.

You used to worry that every emotion you were experiencing was something you were getting secondhand. Now you wonder, How long after you steal something does it become your own? You suppose the humans might know, but you’re too afraid to ask.

He said, once, _This isn’t you._ You wanted to say, which part? The blood on your clothes, the pain in your joints, too much power held in your hands -- it’s all so terribly familiar. All of your iterations, which one is really you?

You want to believe they’re all masks you wear, but you’re worried they’re just different expressions on the same face.

And you worry that face is solely, horribly yours.

\--

Later, when you are human and hungry, you dig in a trash can looking for food and find a newspaper instead, the headline announcing the death of bees by the hundreds, by the thousands.

Pesticides, you know. Poisons. People who don’t have their priorities straight. You hate that you have been one of them.

There was a time before when bees swarmed around your head, landed on your bare skin, buzzed in your ears. You showed up covered in them, a living embodiment of the afterlife, these small creatures trying to create their embalming fluid in the crevasses of your flesh, that sticky sweet substance that was packed into containers and sent with the deceased for their journey to wherever they deserved.

You did not tell him, This is for me, when I go. Where do you suppose it will take what pieces of me remain?

You had been planning on dying, sooner rather than later. You meant it as a favor.

It didn’t matter. He looked at you like you were already gone, anyway.

\--

There’s a hole in your chest where you’re pretty sure a soul should go.

Your good intentions loosened the soil, dug trembling fingers into the dirt; your mistakes gave you claws, your sins handed you a shovel. Your stolen grace curls into your dark corners, shies from the edges of the chasm.

You're afraid you're infertile ground, but not as frequently as you're afraid of what might grow inside you, what twisted crop your choices might conjure, what all the blood you’ve shed might nurture. You've spent a long time trying to weed out the starved, twisted things that have sprung up in the past, trying to nip them in the bud, make sure they’re never allowed to see the light of day.

There’s a soul growing inside of you.

You’re scared of what it will look like when it blooms.

 


End file.
